We few, we unhappy few, we band of smokers.
We smoke cigarettes for different reasons, knowingly poisoning our bodies, the variety of toxins matched only by the array of explanations for our habit.
Some smoke when they drink, others after they eat. Some smoke when they’re bored, some smoke when they’re stressed. Some smoke to be cool, to be different, to be contrary. Few smoke because they enjoy it, many more because they’re addicted.
I personally have never explored the origins of my habit; I, like many, find it unpleasant. I think it’s somewhere between trying to be different and watching too much “Mad Men.”
But no matter why you smoke, it certainly sucks to do so at Binghamton.
“Smokers are the new lepers of society,” said one Ian “Pudding Kid” Wrobleski, a freshman. Being from Manhattan, he has smoked for years. I met him at orientation when we decided to step out of the Health and Wellness presentation for a cigarette.
Nowhere is Mr. Wrobleski’s statement more accurate than at Binghamton. As the long freeze approaches, we smokers throw on our coats, hats and gloves, determinedly trudging the appropriate 25 feet away from the nearest shelter, huddling for warmth as we share broken conversation, inhaling and exhaling to the sounds of our own chattering teeth.
When our treasured packs dwindle, as freshmen, the walk to Hess or Manley’s Mighty Mart looms. The cigarette run is the painful reminder of the stupidity of our addiction, but we refuse to buy cartons, for fear of the admission of our dependence. As smokers, we care little for our well-being, the hustled trek across the frozen tundra is the twice weekly exercise we so deeply loathe.
We have, in the past, enjoyed the once-assumed freedom to smoke near buildings, under a roof even. At Binghamton, before we knew the rules, or at least the extent of their enforcement, my friends and I sat on the walls lining the doorways of Hinman Community, enjoying the convenience.
Oddly, though, as Binghamton has decayed from a pleasant autumnal utopia to the Arctic wasteland of today, the implementation of the 25-feet rule has only increased. One resident director has gone to such lengths as to actually write up smokers too close to the building. The RD in question also found it necessary to write up their non-smoking friend; he was guilty by association, or so it would seem.
The 25-feet rule is, despite my angst, totally fair. Cigarette smoke is both dangerous and generally considered unpleasant to be around. The aggravation, however, remains the same. There is, to my knowledge, no sheltered areas outdoors to smoke in, at least legally. The gazebo in Dickinson Community, for example, is a campus building, supposedly, and smoking in its almost entirely plastic frame is considered a fire hazard.
Smoking at Binghamton gleans all satisfaction out of the act of inhaling a cigarette. The isolation, the long walks and the ubiquitous cold is too much for many smokers to bear. We have weak constitutions anyways. So, I myself have been forced to quit. I have been beaten, bested by the elements. The same weakness that drove me to addiction is forcing me to break my habit. Smoking at Binghamton is impossible; every last aspect of it is seemingly designed for frustration. And maybe that’s the point.